Just Words
by ErinM
Summary: Words are just words. It's how you use them... pre-series


**Title**: Just Words  
**Author**: Erin  
**Characters, Pairing**: Ahamo and baby!Az (mention of the Queen and Ahamo's parents)  
**Rating**: G  
**Summary**: Words are just words. It's how you use them...  
**Warning**: pre-series. There's something not right with this entry. I just can't figure out what it is... Maybe it's the title. Or the flow... o.O Whatever...  
**Disclaimer**: The original characters belong to L. Frank Baum and their respective actors. The current characters belong to Sci-Fi, the movie folks and their respective actors. The rest of 'em are mine.

_'Not bad for a Nebraska boy,'_ he thinks as he leans back to appreciate the masterpiece before him. It's only taken him seven months – _Cycles_, he reminds himself with a sigh. He's been trying to work his 'strange language' in more and more over here, seeing what words and phrases take and which are hopeless.

Behind him, a small noise draws him back to the present and his other two masterpieces. A wide grin spreads across his face and his arms unfold before he turns to move across the large room to the handcrafted crib.

His wife was adamant that the heavily-adorned bassinet – a gift from the Northern Guild – was quite proper for the royal princess. But the look of sheer glee on his face when he uncovered the thing told her that this would be a losing battle.

As he nears the edge of the piece of furniture, he looks down into the mass of pink and white lace and fluffy blankets and smiles at the even-more pink newborn. He knows she can't see him, exactly – the poor girl isn't even a week old – but he tells himself that the sparkle in her eye is there for him and him alone.

"Hello there, little one," he says with a smile. He'll fight anyone who tells him that the look on her face isn't a smile because she recognizes his voice. He knows that she knows he's Dad. Dad... Daddy... Papa... Pop... the Old Man.

Father.

He's a father. He made this little person – who's not much bigger than his two hands put together - ...Well, he helped. His wife did do most of the work, after all. But that's not the point. Right here, right now: she's all _his_.

He's had a few days of practice, holding her head this way and putting this arm here, but he still fears he's going to drop her. Or break her. But he wants her to see the new masterpiece. After all, it's all for her.

So he shifts a blanket that way, supports her head that way and lifts with his arms. She's wearing far too many layers for a newborn, so he sets her back down carefully. He pulls the puffy lace and whatever over her head carefully and, soon, she's simply in an undershirt and a diaper.

Even she looks more comfortable.

Picking her up once again, he rests her tiny head against his shoulder and turns slowly, his hand covering her entire backside. Pressing the lightest kiss to her bald head, he aims her toward the far wall and asks: "What do you think?"

Of course, she says nothing.

Moving across the room, he shifts her to the other shoulder so that they are both facing the mural, even though her eyes are closed again. She's very warm, he notices; and smells like a baby. Go figure. Insuring his hold on her, he points to a flower in the foreground.

"This is an azalea... and this," he points to another. "-is a daffodil." Taking a step to the right, he points to a large rock in the midst of the landscape before them. "And there's a katydid, right there." He glances down and smiles, seeing that she's asleep again.

He wonders if she'll ever forgive him for her name. Especially once she learns how it came about. Really... it was a joke that got out of hand, but her mother seemed to like it. Or she hates it and doesn't have the heart to tell him.

Resting his cheek against her still-warm head, he stares at the rolling fields and wonders what is happening on the other side at this very moment. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table with his mother; his father pacing the room in frustration.

_"I don't understand why you would want to go to school to be a- a-" his father said with exasperation._

"An artist, Dad. It's not like it's a bad word," he said with a frown.

"Why don't you study science? Or math? Something with merit..."

"Boys, let's just stop this, right now. All I asked was if he would paint the kitchen a different color," his mother said with a huff. The argument quickly grew from a comment regarding the current wallpaper to his future endeavors.

"I don't care about the kitchen," his father said gruffly. "Our son wants to paint. For a living. Where's the stability in that? And, if that wasn't enough, he's running off to join the circus!"

"It's not the circus! It's the state fair and it's a job."

"You have a job here," his father snapped.

"I don't want to be a farmer."

"And what's wrong with being a farmer?" It was starting to get ugly in the kitchen. And he wasn't talking about the wallpaper.

"Nothing! But it's not for me." His father huffed and shook his head. Outside, an automobile horn sounded, causing all of them to turn toward the door. He stood and gave both parents a sad shrug.

"We have to be in Omaha tonight to set up for the opening tomorrow." His mother gave him a hug and kissed his cheek, whispering comfort into his ear. Looking at his father – who was still stewing – he took a deep breath and nodded once toward the wall.

"Either this wallpaper goes, or I do."

He hadn't intended his last words to be quite so literal.


End file.
